


picking my teeth with a razor blade

by rottenboy (TechnicalTragedy)



Series: arrangement [1]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Blood, Choking, Crotch Stepping, Crying, Dirty Talk, Face Punching, Facials, Gross, Hair-pulling, Hallucinations, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Strangulation, Violent Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9077245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/rottenboy
Summary: You see, Glanni and Íþróttaálfurinn have this agreement.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thats a whole lot of tags for less than 1k,,,,,uh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,im Nasty sorry,,the violence warning is to be safe,
> 
> title is from the song "punch drunk on black mold" by absofacto

Íþróttaálfurinn has his hand around Glanni's throat, pressing hard enough that his vision is tunneling, turning gray and black. Glanni isn't fighting back, wouldn't even if he had the presence of mind to do so, but his hand is wrapped ineffectually around Íþróttaálfurinn's wrist. It feels more like a lover's caress than an act of resistance.

 

He can still taste the blood on his teeth.

 

Glanni's lips move without sound, or maybe he just can't hear it. His ears are ringing, blocking out the world. Íþróttaálfurinn is stroking his short hair with his free hand, making half-noises that mean nothing, have never meant anything. Glanni wishes it could be like this forever.

 

Air rushes into his lungs and Glanni is coughing, retching, sobbing, Íþróttaálfurinn's grip is slack but still there, an anchor to keep Glanni on the ground.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn punches him for the umpteenth time. Glanni feels something new break, feels warm blood gush over his mouth and realizes it was his nose. Tears roll down his cheeks, salt mixing with iron on Glanni's tongue and making him retch all over again, heaving up air because he's already emptied his stomach all over the ground a few feet away.

 

“Thank you,” Glanni chokes out. Íþróttaálfurinn's hand tightens and cuts anything further off.

 

It continues for years, the cycle of fade-breathe-punch-thanks-fade-breathe-punch-thanks-fade...

 

Glanni doesn't even realize when Íþróttaálfurinn isn't touching him anymore, when he's on his knees sobbing, dripping blood and tears and spit near Íþróttaálfurinn's feet. Íþróttaálfurinn is speaking, Glanni thinks, but none of it makes sense, none of it makes any sense. All Glanni knows is the unyielding pavement beneath his knees, the heat in his face as he tries to catch his breath despite his lungs being full to the brim.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn's foot touches his chest, pushes him back until he's against the wall, legs still curled under him in a way that aches.

 

“What do we say?” Íþróttaálfurinn asks, tone deceptively light.

 

Glanni coughs, feeling liquid hit the backs of his teeth. “Thank you,” he rasps, mindless, “thank you, thank you, thank-”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn's foot slides down his body, pressing down into Glanni's crotch. “I'm sorry, could you speak up? I'm having a hard time hearing you.”

 

“Thank you!” Glanni says, too loud. Íþróttaálfurinn's foot grinds down, and Glanni hadn't even known there was enough blood left in his body to get hard, but he isn't performing at peak mental capacity. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you,” he says.

 

“Who are you thanking?”

 

Glanni gurgles as Íþróttaálfurinn keeps applying more pressure, driving him higher. “You, you, Íþróttaálfurinn, thank you,” he says.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn's hand returns to Glanni's head, gripping his hair tight. He's jerking himself off right in front of Glanni, so close he salivates despite himself, but one heel still pushes hard into Glanni's cock. “Good boy, Glæpur,” Íþróttaálfurinn says. “You've been a very good boy.”

 

The praise is another nail in the coffin, and Glanni shamelessly ruts up into Íþróttaálfurinn's boot, lips parting on a silent groan.

 

“You aren't allowed to come before I do,” Íþróttaálfurinn says roughly. His hand is moving faster over his dick, his fingers curling tighter in Glanni's hair. “Seeing you on your knees for me like the whore you are, all covered in blood and crying but still humping my foot like a dog, it's disgusting, Glæpur.” Íþróttaálfurinn moans low in his throat, tilting Glanni's head back further. “But you've been good for me, you took your punishment so well. My good boy, my bad good boy.”

 

Glanni whines, hands coming up to cling to Íþróttaálfurinn's thick thigh. He's so close everything feels washed out, he doesn't know anything but this feeling and Íþróttaálfurinn's voice in his ears, spurring him on.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn comes with a quiet groan, wavering closer to Glanni as his body tightens. The warmth of his come hits Glanni in the face, landing mostly around his mouth and throat. It pushes him to the edge, and after a few more frantic thrusts of his hips Glanni is coming inside his catsuit, a whimper falling past his lips.

 

For a long moment, all Glanni hears is his own breathing. Íþróttaálfurinn tucks himself back into his obnoxious pants and steps away, retreating to the other side of the alley while Glanni gets his bearings.

 

“You know the agreement,” Íþróttaálfurinn says when Glanni is finally struggling to his feet. “Don't show your face, I won't turn you in, meet me here next week.”

 

Glanni nods, leaning heavily against the wall. “Thank you,” he breathes.

 

As per their agreement, Íþróttaálfurinn flips away into the night without another word. Glanni doesn't watch him go, too focused on sorting himself out. He stumbles out of the dingy back alley five or so minutes later and hides his face as he leaves it behind.

 

Slowly, he makes his way back to the motel he's staying in. MayhemTown isn't known for its fine living accommodations, and this rat and roach infested shithole is a prime example of that. Glanni misses his luxurious LazyTown hotel room, but even the motel's shower with its awful water pressure and scalding, murky water feels like heaven to him at the moment. The blood and semen and spit wash down the drain, and Glanni is sure he's never felt cleaner. He makes himself throw up to make sure.

 

Glanni checks to see if he still has all his teeth, opening his mouth wide. For a second, he thinks he sees blood seeping up out of his molars, but he blinks and it's gone. He pops his nose back into place without screaming, barely, and then takes a moment to look himself over. Glanni's a mess, but he didn't expect any different.

 

The mattress squeals as he collapses onto it, and Glanni lays there staring up at the water-stained ceiling for what feels like centuries, shapes and colors swirling above him in nauseating patterns.

 

Sleep finds him eventually, but it isn't much of a comfort.

 


End file.
